Imagination Can Sometimes Be A Dangerous Thing
by TheFemaleBen10
Summary: 12 year-old Ryder is an avid, imaginative fanfiction author who dreams of one day publishing her own original story. But what happens when some shady people want acess to her thoughts and ideas, and Ryder gets trapped within her own mind? (Story inspired by the Ben 10 episode Perfect Day, Rated T just in case)


My fingers are a flurry of mild tan skin as I type the final chapter to my latest work of fanfiction, a Ben 10 story I call _Fugitive_. I'm typing the final paragraph when my mom calls to me from downstairs.

"Ryder, honey, it's time for school. And get off that computer, you've been on it since five o'clock this morning!"

"Timezones, mom," I complain. "It's hard to catch authors online when they live in Pakistan or something!"

"I don't care, school's more important! Now, come and grab your lunch so you can walk today! I don't want to have to drive you!"

"But Mo-"

"No buts! Now come on!"

I get up slowly, grumbling. _The joys of an author's life, _I think.

Coming downstairs, I take as long as possible to shuffle down the carpeted stairs and into the dining room, static shocking my mom accidentally as I take my lunch from her.

"Ouch!" my mom says.

"Sorry. Carpet on the stairs," I say, and grin sheepishly.

I take even longer to throw all the stuff in my backpack and grab my clarinet case for second period, Band.

"Try to get ready sooner, sweetie, you don't have time to walk now," my mom says. "I'll have to drive you."

_That was kind of the point, _I think in my head.

As we get in the car, my mom strikes up a conversation by saying, "You know, you spend to much time on that website, uh... Fanfiction."

"Not too much, just more than any normal kid, probably," I say.

"I don't think sitting in front of a computer's going to help you much in life," my mom warns.

"Writing is educational. Sitting and typing will make me become a famous author someday," I retort. "We're here. Bye, Mom."

I open the car door, hop out with my stuff, and close it before she can give me a response. A bit... cold, yes, but it's not like my mom hasn't gotten this from me before.

I've never been particularly close to my mom. Perhaps that's because I blame her for the death of my father.

When I was five, I wasn't particularly fond of either of my parents. I constantly hated their strict, put-one-toe-over-the-line-and-you're-dead rules. I called my parents mean, often screamed and hollered- but inside, I loved them anyways. My parents also argued a lot, about unknown subjects, since they'd often go in their room and send me to mine. One time, my dad said he had enough of my fits, and said he was going out for a walk. My mom did nothing to stop him, probably because she didn't blame him.

Only he didn't come back.

An hour and a half later, my mom was getting worried, so she tried calling him on her cell phone. When that didn't work, she went out and looked for him. Coming back with no success, she called the police. On the phone, she told them her husband's name. The officer on the other end said that they had found him- well, his body.

The full story was that, that night, my mom had wanted a divorce with my dad. My dad begged her not to, but she wouldn't be convinced. After that- when I had thrown another tantrum and he went for a walk- he stopped at a bridge, climbed on the railing, and threw himself off.

I blame my mom.

I probably shouldn't.

But I do.

I just feel that... if she hadn't wanted the divorce, then my dad would still be alive.

Which is probably true.

Walking up to my school, I notice my friend, Izzy, by the front entrance. Her real name is Isabella, but never call her that. Ever. I've seen what she does to people who do.

"Hey, Ryder," she says, brushing a strand of her long, blonde hair behind her ear.

"Hey," I say.

Izzy immediately notices the miffed tone that's crept up into my voice. "What's wrong?" she says, in a tone that makes it sound a bit accusing.

"Eh. My mom," I say. "She isn't really the type that understands kid stuff."

"You've told me that a million times," Izzy says. "It's getting old. How about... telling me the truth?"

"That is the truth. If you want a lie, I'll tell you that I bought a cat and he jumped off a cliff," I say, tone steady and even. I make my way around Izzy and head through the school gates.

In first period, I sit down in my assigned seat. I notice that our teacher, Mrs. Harrison, isn't here today; instead we have a substitute, wearing a brown fedora that looks somewhat ridiculous. He's busy writing something on the board, at which in the middle, the bell rings to signal that all students should be in class. When the substitute moves, I can see it's his name- Mr. Rider. Strange, that his last name would be, phenectically, the same as my first name, only with a slight spelling difference, but I ignore it.

"Good Morning class," he says, turning around, at which point I can see rectangular glasses poised on his face. "Your teacher, Mrs. Harrison, is... out sick today." I notice his slight hesitation between our regular teacher's name and the reason why she's out, but only raise an eyebrow and look in Izzy's direction, to make sure she catches it.

At that point, the phone on the classroom wall rings. "Excuse me," Mr. Rider says, and picks up the phone. "Nolan Rider speaking. Yes, she's here. No,this is not a good time. I'm sorry... Yes, but... Fine."

He hangs up the phone and says, "Ryder Sanders. You're wanted in the office."

The whole class goes into a series of "OOH, you're in trouble," but Mr. Rider quickly silences them.

Who knew 7th graders were still so immature?

"Miss Sanders, if you will," he says.

I grab my stuff and head out the classroom door, down the hall towards the office. When I enter the office, I can see an Asian man wearing a black suit, tie, and sunglasses at the front desk.

_Where did he come from, _Men in Black?I think, and head towards the front desk. "Someone wanted me?" I ask.

The lady at the front desk said, "Yes... your father, Oliver Sanders?"

I blink, then turn to the man in black. "My father died seven years ago. You're not-"

Suddenly, out of the side of his jacket, he pulls a pistol. "Nobody move."

My head is spinning. I'm a normal girl who goes to a normal school... and here a guy goes through the trouble to... _kidnap_... me?

"What's going on?" I ask.

"I said, silence!" the man says.

"The last time I checked, you said nobody move, not nobody talk."

The man presses the pistol against my temple. "Lucky for you, my benefactor wants you _alive_. Or this bullet would already be lodged in your brain."

I gulp. This guy's definitely serious.

Two more people enter through the school doors, a man and a woman. The man is dressed in the same apparell as the one with the gun, and the woman has on a black shirt and skirt, with black heels and sunglasses as well.

"The boss isn't waiting. Grab the girl; let's go," says the woman.

The two men grab my arms. "Let me go!" I say, struggling.

"You're really starting to get on my nerves, kid," says the first man. "Shut up."

Just then, someone bursts through the office's student door. It's Mr. Rider.

"What's going o-" he says, but's inturrupted by a gunshot. I can see a red mark starting to form on his right shoulder- a bullet hole. The second man in black is holding a smoking pistol. "Knowles..." He collapses, and I gasp.

"Y-you just sh-shot..." I say, but can't get the rest of it out. I don't think he's actually dead, just in shock. The bullet most likely didn't hit a vital organ, it's his shoulder, but maybe a vital artery... gosh, I wish I'd paid more attention in science class and tried for an A instead of the dull C I actually have.

The men once again grab my arms, and then drag me out the door. They head towards a black sports car that's parked in the dropoff/pickup area. the woman takes out a wet rag and presses it against my face. I'm about to protest, but once I get a whiff of whatever's on the rag- which happens to have a clean-laundry smell- I pass out.


End file.
